


Breaking Point

by ArgentLives



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Catharsis, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Feelings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 05:16:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5079292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgentLives/pseuds/ArgentLives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iris has spent a long time bottling things up, putting on a smile, pretending to be okay, even when she’s not. With the news of her mother being alive and everything about the woman she thought she knew from stories falling to pieces, this has really been a long time coming. No matter how strong she is, there’s only so much she can take.</p><p>[or: my take on the deleted scene from 2x03 and an exploration of Iris’s thoughts and feelings]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Point

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be how I'd imagine (or want) that westallen deleted heart-to-heart to go but it ended up being much more just about Iris and her feelings and how I think she handles things and bottles things up and I just wanted to write something from her perspective so I might be completely off the mark here but I tried!

The album feels heavy in her lap, and she tries not to let herself think about what the splotches on some of the photos (always of her, always smiling, happy and so unaware) must be from, edges bent and worn and clearly taken out and put back in, taken out and put back in again. Her mind feels scarily blank as her fingers ghost over the pictures, trembling and numb. It’s shock, sure, but it’s more that familiar numbness that has her bracing herself for the inevitable. Because it’s numb like she’s right on the brink of feeling too much and all at once again, of falling hard and fast, breaking down in the way she’s always hated, and seldom lets herself. 

Breaking down is not what she does, not at first, never at first. She’s got a bad habit of holding in the things that hurt her, putting on a smile and trying so hard to be brave. To be happy. Bottle things up until they can’t be bottled up anymore, until it’s not a matter of compartmentalizing or ignoring the creeping sense of hopelessness and hollowness clawing at her chest, but a matter of that bottle becoming so full it bursts without her permission, explodes in a way that can only spell collateral damage.

With her, though, this isn’t unusual. It’s always the numbness that comes first. It was the night she was old enough to understand that there was something missing from her home, that most kids showed up to their first day of school with their hands nestled in the palms of two parents instead of one, and when she’d asked her father had told her with a faraway look in his eye her mother was  _dead_ , and that he was so sorry, and that was why she didn’t have one. It was then, and it is now that she knows she’s alive again. Was never dead in the first place, just…missing.  _No, not missing,_ her mind corrects. _Absent._ Because there’s a difference. God, there’s a difference.

She turns to the next page in the album, slowly, mechanically, and immediately wishes she hadn’t. There’s a woman,  _a stranger_ , holding her, smiling a smile with cracked and dry lips that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She remembers seeing this picture before, wondering why her mom looked so tired, assuming it must be because of the sickness she now knows never existed, thinking of all the stories her father had told her and feeling just a little bit closer to the woman behind them. Now that she knows all of those stories were lies, all she feels is cold, and more distant than ever.

 _You’re a great writer,_   _Iris_ , a voice echoes in her head,  _just like your mother_.

It’s not the first time he’s said something like it, she thinks, a bitter taste on her tongue. Like your mother, like your mother, like your mother.  _But which one?_  The imaginary person he’d carefully crafted over twenty long years of keeping her in the dark, or the mother who  _is_  real but whose existence is somehow so much harder to accept? Was that just another lie, or was there any truth to those stories? She stares hard at the picture in her lap, at those tired eyes and that forced smile, and wonders whether she really even shares anything with this stranger other than the shape of her face, the curve of her lips.

She doesn’t want to hate her. Just like she didn’t want to hate Barry after finding out the secret life he’d been hiding from her, just like she doesn’t want to hate her dad for keeping this from her, just like she doesn’t want to hate Eddie for leaving her. For  _choosing_  to leave her. And here’s another person who did the very same.

The thing is, it’s either forgive and suppress, pretend everything’s okay when it’s not and she’s not, the bitterness eating away at her insides like acid, or lose the people she loves. Choose not to forgive, refuse to get over it, and let them go. And how is that fair? She’s just…tired. God, she’s so fucking tired of being put in this position.

Maybe she should try to understand. Really, that’s what she’s all about, isn’t it? Understanding? So maybe she shouldn’t be so hard on her absent mother for leaving her, for never checking in, for being just as much of the reason she never knew she existed as her dad and his lies. Maybe it was all too much for her. Maybe she couldn’t handle things as they were, and chose to run away from them instead. And that’s something Iris can relate to, for sure.

After all, Barry may be the one with super-speed, but she’s no stranger from running from her problems, either. It’s what she’s been doing for the past six months, hasn’t it? No, even longer. Since Christmas, and her best friend told her he was in love with her. And even before that, since the coma, and the long nine months that followed, nine months where she’d thought a lot about things she never quite came to voice. Since the structure of everything she knew came falling down around her, since everything she thought she had figured out was torn apart at the seams. It’s all been sort of a downhill ride from there, hasn’t it? A dangerous game of how much she can hold in, suppress, forgive, until she bursts. An endless string of events that threatened to throw her off balance, disrupt her life, treat her feelings like a punching-bag.

 _Your best friend is in love with you_ and  _everyone you love is keeping secrets from you_  and  _you love Eddie_ and  _you’re in love with your best friend_  and  _Barry is the Flash_   _and everyone but you knew_  and  _the people you trusted most lied to you for months_  and  _your mom left you when you were young but she is alive_  and  _Eddie is dead_.

 _Eddie._  That’s a whole other box she’s not even near ready to open yet.

It’s too much. Too much to deal with, too much to think about, now and then and ever, and she’d rather just…not.

So, yeah, she knows what it’s like to run away from her problems, turn her back on them and pretend they’re not real, because sometimes that’s so much easier. What hurts is knowing that for her mother,  _she_ was part of the problem. She was part of what she was running away from.

How do you forgive twenty years of absence? Of abandonment? Of missed birthdays, missed milestones, missed everything. She’s not entirely sure that she can. And she is so, so tired of forgiving.

She stares at the photo of the stranger until she can’t any longer, trying to make sense of the woman staring back at her until it makes her sick, and quickly tears her eyes away to focus on the next page. Her fingers glide across the album, and this time they still over a photo of her and her dad. There’s a burning sensation in the back of her throat, a sharp pang in her stomach.  _No_ , she thinks, gritting her teeth, because she can already feel herself starting to crack, the bottle in her chest dangerously close to its breaking point.  _No_.

In the picture, she can’t be more than six. She’s nestled up by her dad’s side, and he’s got an arm around her, holding her close,  _keeping her safe_. She remembers when this was taken, remembers curling up against her dad and burying her head against his chest because Grandma Esther had brought over her dog that year for Christmas and it had been Big and Loud and Scary. But her dad was bigger and stronger, and of course he’d wiped the tears off her cheeks and swore to protect her, shooed it off when it had chased her around the living room. She hadn’t left his side for the rest of the night, and Grandma Esther had snapped a picture of them after they’d fallen asleep on the couch like that together, all curled up and comfy, in front of the fireplace.

Keeping her safe has always been a full time occupation of her dad’s, this picture reminds her. She just misses the days when keeping her safe didn’t mean keeping her from other things, things like joining the police academy, or the truth.

The front door opens and closes, and the footsteps she hears are easily recognizable from years of living down the hall from him, even if he’s learned to tread much lighter ever since he’s figured out that with the life he leads he can’t always get by on speed alone.

“Hey,” he says softly, his footsteps getting closer, and she can’t find the strength to look up. “You okay?”

The word sounds so absurd to her right now, she’d laugh if her throat wasn’t so dry.  _Okay?_  She hasn’t been okay for a long, long time. Instead she just shrugs, allowing him to sit down next to her, close enough to offer comfort if she wants it but far enough to give her space if that’s what she needs.

“Do you know?” She very narrowly avoids saying  _did_ , and hates that she even has to ask in the first place. Hates that no matter how much she tries to ignore it, there’s that doubt there, where there didn’t use to be, before all his secrets. But he’s lied to her about something life-changing before, and she doubts. God, she doesn’t want to, but she does.

A sad sigh, a thoughtful pause, and then, “Yeah.”

Her heart drops to her stomach, and she squeezes her eyes shut, reminding herself to breathe. _He told him before me,_  is all she can think, and for some reason it’s this that pushes her over the edge, the rotten cherry on top of a sundae of shitty news. She feels the crack in her chest start to spread, her walls start to crumble, that bottle set to explode.  _Before me, before me…_

“How long?” she asks, and her voice sounds scarily empty even to her own ears.

“How…? No! No, not like that,” Barry hastens to explain, catching onto her tone and recognizing the way her face must crumple. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I mean I’ve known literally since last night. He was already planning on telling you, he just needed a little push, or reassurance, I think. You know, that he’d be doing the right thing. He was so scared of hurting you.”

“Yeah, well,” Iris says bitterly, feeling her hands start to shake, her vision go blurry, because even though she gets what Barry is saying, the damage is already done. She slams the album shut and throws it hard across the room, and it’s lucky there’s nothing breakable within arm’s reach of her, because she’d be throwing that too, if she could. It hits the wall with a loud  _‘’smack’_  that makes Barry jump next to her, the pages spilling open, and if she’s ruined some of the pictures, she thinks, well, good. They’re already ruined for her. “Kind of too late for that, don’t you think?”

“Did it…did it not go well?”

“Oh, it went fine,” she snarls, and she’s angry, she’s so angry, and it’s sudden, but it makes sense. What is it, the stages of grief? Denial, anger, whatever the hell comes after that. The thing is, she’s spent so long in the denial part of it, not just for this fresh grief but for Eddie, for Barry, for all the lies and the secrets and the frustration and confusion that came before it, too, that now it’s like there’s a storm raging inside her chest, howling to escape. Sure, she’s been angry before, she’s let them know it, but that was just the tip of the iceberg compared to how she feels now. “I told him I understood. He was just trying to protect me, right? Always trying to protect me. It was cute when I was six; now I’m really fucking sick of it.”

Barry stays quiet, sensing she’s not done, bracing himself for the inevitable. She doesn’t keep him waiting long. “Just like I understand why you lied to me to all those months, right? Why _everyone_  lied to me. Just like I understand why my mother left, why she’s back now. Just like I understand why—” she takes a deep, shuddering breath, curls her fingers into fists, “why Eddie shot himself. Why he left me. Oh, I can understand, all right, but you know what? That doesn’t mean I really forgive. All this time, and I—I understand, but maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m lying, too. And I’m so sick and tired of having to forgive.”

A pause, and she unclenches her fingers, clenches them again, anything to stop their trembling. She can feel the heat rising to her face, can feel her voice getting higher and higher the longer she goes on, but she can’t bring herself to care that she’s coming very close to yelling. “I hate feeling like this, I hate being bitter, but I’m so bitter, Barry. I am so, so bitter, and I’m sick of being lied to, and I’m sick of people leaving me, and I’m sick of being left in the dark, and I’m sick of people trying to protect me, and I’m sick of everyone assuming they know what’s best for me, and I’m sick of my feelings being tossed around, and I’m sick of acting like it doesn’t bother me! It really fucking bothers me! I’m so  _sick_  of all this, I—”

The words get lost as a sob bubbles up in her chest, anger and frustration and grief all wrapped up into one, and she doesn’t want to cry, doesn’t want to lose it like this, but she already is. There’s a warm pressure on her hand, and she looks down to see his covering hers, holding it in place, his thumb moving gently across the back of it to ease the tremors. She hadn’t even realized she’d been shaking so bad, but the touch is sort of grounding. She doesn’t throw it off, anyway, allows him to scoot a little closer so that she can lean into his shoulder, when she’s ready. 

She looks at him, his eyes open and gentle, his face lined with concern, and she knows that he’s there to listen. That he won’t try to talk over her, because useless platitudes are not what she needs right now, not from him, not from anyone. She just needs to let go, and she knows he’s there to absorb the blast.

“If she wasn’t back in Central City,” Iris continues, lowering her voice again, although it takes effort, “if she wasn’t asking to see me, he never would have told me at all. He would’ve let me go my whole life believing such a huge lie.”

It’s not a question, it’s not a  _‘what if,’_  it’s a fact, and that’s what kills her more than anything. Barry doesn’t try to deny it, either, but there’s something in his expression that makes her curious enough to ask, and annoyed that she has to. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Well…” he says slowly, like he’s choosing his words with care, “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing? Not that he lied to you, obviously, that’s a bad thing and a very big thing, especially considering—well. What I mean is that if you grew up knowing your mom was alive and still out there, even knowing that she left, would you ever give up trying to find her? At least to get some sort of explanation? Iris, I know you, you’ve always been determined, and curious. It’s part of what makes you such a great reporter. But, you know, what if without that closure, you spent your whole life looking for her? Let that one thing bring you down, dictate everything else?”

Iris purses her lips, sensing what he’s getting at, fifteen years of deja-vu of watching a broken little boy go through much the same flashing before her eyes. “Sounds familiar.”

“Well, yeah, in a way. That’s kind of what I mean. Spending so many years searching for answers, trying to make sense of things, dedicating so much of my life and making so many of my decisions based on that one thing, it’s not—it’s not something I’d want for you, and I get why it’s not something Joe would want for you either. I’m not saying it’s right, I just—I don’t know.”

It makes more sense than she’s willing to admit, and she knows that her dad wouldn’t have kept it from her if he didn’t think he was doing the right thing. Knows that everything he does is out of love for her, no matter how warped or wrong it might actually be. And maybe she is better off now, having not known before, having been in the dark, but…that’s just the problem, though. She never got to make that decision for herself, didn’t have a say in a matter so important to her own life. And doesn’t she deserve that, at least?

“Would you have told me?” Iris asks, changing the subject, her voice small but challenging. She doesn’t care that the question makes him flinch. Hadn’t she trusted this boy with her life just a day ago? Jumped out a fucking window five stories from the ground because she knew, she  _trusted_  he would catch her? Now she can’t even look at him as she asks, knowing the expression on his face will give it away, afraid of the answer she’ll get. “If he told you last night, but then decided not to tell me after all. Would you have told me?”

“Yes,” Barry answers without hesitation, and she looks up from the spot on the ground that she’s been staring at without really seeing to search his expression, gauge his sincerity. “Iris, trust me, I’ve learned my lesson there. I’m sorry that I ever had to learn it in the first place, I know I never should have lied to you, but I did, and I know better now. And this thing with your mom—it’s your life. You can handle it.”

He squeezes her hand a bit, and she lets out the breath she’s been holding, nods to let him know she believes him. Which she’s not completely positive she does, not when she’s so unsure of so many things in her life right now, but she just wants something to be hopeful about. 

“She wants to meet with me,” she says, biting her lip, breaking the silence that’s fallen between them. “My mom, I—I’m supposed to call her. Set up a time. God, I don’t even remember her voice, and what do I even say? My dad said he’d do it, but I don’t want him to. I said I wanted to do it myself, and yet...I don’t know.”

“I could be there with you when you do, if that would help,” Barry offers, smiling hesitantly. “Moral support, and all, like all those times you came with me when I first visited my dad in jail.”

“Maybe…” she sighs, running a tired hand down her face, still reeling from the rollercoaster of emotions this day has been. “It’s just…talking to her is one thing, you know? It’s just talking to a stranger, really, like I’m calling up someone from work to get a scoop on something, only this time it’s on me, you know  _‘Iris West’s M.I.A. mother, alive and well in Central City, read all about it.’_  What I’m worried about is what happens after that. I don’t want to hate her. I mean, I do, actually, I really do, but I shouldn’t.”

“It’s okay if you do, though. If it takes you a while to forgive, if you don’t want to forgive at all. You’re allowed to be angry at the people who hurt you, no matter how close they are. That includes your mom, and Joe, and me, and even—even Eddie. That doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re allowed to want better for yourself, you deserve it.”

“Yeah,” she says, and lets out a short burst of laughter, although there’s no humor behind it, and it’s more hysterical than anything. She blinks away the tears in her eyes, not bothering to wipe the wetness away from her cheeks, and instead presses her face into his shoulder. “Yeah, maybe. I hate you, Barry Allen.”

“Okay,” he hums, wrapping an arm around her shaking shoulders and bringing up a hand to run through her hair, letting her use his jacket like some over-sized tissue, and she smiles a little into the fabric for the first time in hours.

“Okay,” she repeats, and it’s not, she knows it’s not, not right now, not before, and maybe it won’t be for a while. But she says it again, and again, and she cries until her throat hurts, and almost believes that it will be.


End file.
